Jennifer's Blue Panties

Foster Davis had been a widower for just over two years when his daughter and a friend were returning from a semester in France the week before Thanksgiving. Tall, forty-something and in good physical shape with a distinguished touch of gray at his temples and salted throughout his professorial beard, he was lonely for companionship he easily could have had were he so inclined. But somewhat lost following his wife's death, he stayed single and mostly celibate. He missed his children though. His son, a newlywed, was visiting his in-laws for the holiday, so Foster anxiously awaited Megan and her friend at the airport on the cold and rainy Saturday afternoon. The plane long had disgorged its passengers when a pretty girl in the baggage area approached him pulling a luggage cart and addressed him as if she knew him.

"Mr. Davis, you do have Megan's eyes" the brunette said confidently, "I'm Jennifer."

"Hello" he said cheerfully as she shook his hand. Five foot seven or so with medium-length, dark brunette hair, she had sparkling green eyes, a friendly smile, a healthy girl-next-door complexion and the feral grace of an athlete. She was feminine but looked fit and agile in a way that only training could provide.

"Is Megan still in customs," he inquired, looking over her shoulder for his daughter.

"You didn't get her email" she realized as she saw the confusion in his eyes.

"No, I didn't" he confirmed, puzzlement turning to a slight pique, "I didn't get a phone call, a text message, or a smoke signal either," he added, failing miserably at trying not to sound too irritated.

"She's still in France" she smiled tentatively as she raised her eyebrows over intelligent eyes. "Customs fucked up her, sorry, screwed up her visa, so she's stuck there until tomorrow to work it out, but she managed a direct flight home. There's no problem though, so don't worry. She said you'd worry and that I was to take care of you," she added. "She'll be home by tomorrow evening; I have all of her flight information. I hope you don't mind that I beat her here" she added as she noticed his disappointment and concern.

"Not at all" he added cheerfully, once again, and tried to recover, sensing that she perceived his distress. "You are more than welcome, of course. Megan has told me a bit about you as well."

"I hope not everything," she chided good-naturedly.

"Just the good stuff" he said as he took charge of her luggage cart, and they made their way to the car.

They chatted amicably as they began the journey from BWI to Columbia in the late afternoon drizzle, fog and heavy pre-holiday traffic. Jennifer was on Megan's lacrosse team; they both were twenty-two, college seniors, French majors, and both intended to study international law in graduate school. Jennifer seemed lithe and confident to him from their conversation. As they finally reached the car he finally noticed that she was leggy in her gray sweats and sneakers, and he noticed as well a magnificent derriere hidden underneath the formless sweats as he watched her bend into the back of his Mini Cooper to stow her luggage. Her wool sweater and down jacket ensured that her upper torso was still a mystery, but he tried to banish such thoughts as he drove and they chatted about France.

At his house he got her settled in his son's former room, now the guest room, across the carpeted hall from the master suite and next to Megan's room. She jumped at his offer to freshen up after the long flight, complaining that she could still smell jet fuel on her clothes.

He left her alone to unpack as he prepared to leave to buy beer for the girls and Scotch for him, as well as his weekly lottery ticket. She didn't answer as he called to tell her that he was leaving, so he walked to her door and knocked softly. Getting no response he pushed the door open to find her sound asleep, no doubt tired from her flight. She lay sprawled on her stomach with her arms crossed, cushioning her head; she was still in her sneakers and they hung out over the end of the bed. It was then that he took stock of the full and muscled derriere that accented her backside. Her sweats were twisted where she fell asleep and pulled tight where her ass curved under to her inner thighs. The seam dug into the deep crack between taut cheeks and faintly outlined the seams of what appeared to be thin triangular panties underneath. He sighed deeply and vaguely remembered a team picture with her muddy in her lacrosse uniform, which was all of her body he would permit myself to think of for now. She was twenty-two and a friend of his daughter's he reflected as he fought to dispel an image of her in little other than sweats or less.

"Enough" he mouthed softly as he closed the front door behind him and made his way to the neighborhood drugstore. He wasted some additional time and bought sundry items for the three of them before he headed home. The house was silent as he entered, and thinking her still asleep he was quiet as well as he put away his purchases. He made his way to his bedroom and consciously avoided looking into the guestroom as he passed the door still slightly ajar; "out of sight out of mind" he softly declared to no one in particular as he stretched out for a nap on the dreary Sunday afternoon.

Not five minutes later he heard what he assumed was the soft meowing of an outdoor cat. But the sound grew and began to resemble crying, and he first thought that Jennifer was dreaming, and then he feared that she was in some sort of distress, physical or otherwise. He softly made his way into the hall and peered through the narrow opening in the doorway.

Jennifer still lay face down. But now her sneakers and socks were dropped on the floor at the foot of the bed and her knees were bent and her legs jutted into the air so that at first he couldn't see her body at all. As her panting increased she dropped her legs to the bed to reveal the length of her body. Her sweats were pulled to just below her knees, and tiny sky blue panties were rolled down and bunched beneath her lovely cheeks so that he could see the bare mounds of her finely toned rump, now pushed upward to accommodate her busy right hand. She was moaning softly, not crying, and one hand appeared to be industriously active underneath her as her cheeks tightened and loosened and her toes curled in time to her throaty panting. Indeed, she was in such good shape it appeared that a quarter dropped on her bottom would impossibly bounce back on her flesh.

Fascinated, but not wanting to be caught watching her, he retreated from the door. He was so transfixed that he could barely move, save whichever muscles began involuntarily to pump blood into his organ. It was the single most erotic moment he had ever witnessed, never having watched a woman masturbate in his company, nor voyeuristically watched one in the throes of such a private moment, surely not his wife. He wanted to enter the room, kneel and kiss the bottoms of her feet, slide her sweats from her legs so she could spread them to reveal herself to his eager eyes, to do the things that his wife never permitted.

Of course he didn't. He felt a slight twinge of embarrassment as he quickly retreated to his bedroom, trying to pull his door shut ever so quietly. But tension got the better of his self-control, and he closed the door with a loud noise. When the door shut with a noisy click, her cries of pleasure abruptly ceased.

Needless to say, he was incredibly aroused by what he had observed and lay down to try to take an elusive nap, his cock throbbing in concert with his heart. It was nearly impossible to will his manhood to deflate, so he went to the master bathroom to shower with the intention of relieving himself in the hot water and soap. He heard Jennifer open the door to her room and enter the family bathroom next to the master bath. He listened to her pee as he sat on the cold, closed toilet seat and massaged his dick. The thought of her on the other side of the wall and so aroused did nothing to discourage his excited state as he imagined Jennifer still on the bed as he saw her earlier, her flesh pulsing to the libidinous rhythm of her hand.

In his mind's eye he imagined a close-up image of her ass on the bed and still an even closer image of her busy finger frantically dipping into her needy slit, while she explored the gentle hills and cavities of her body with frantic, plunging fingers. Like an addict denied a drug, he wanted to see her again, maybe this time unclothed, and he knew how he might do so, despite the awkwardness of his spur of the moment plan.

Quickly he pulled down the attic access in his bedroom and mounted the rickety stairs into the cold and dusty space, quickly getting the noisy part of his plan out of the way while Jennifer was still in the bathroom. He moved a box or two and threw a length of fiberglass insulation aside to reveal the brace for the ceiling fan in the guest room below. He knelt carefully, lying face down in the dust to position his eye over a strategically placed hole in the attic flooring and the wallboard of the room, aside the motor of the ceiling fan. He had almost forgotten the spy hole, drilled years before when his wife and he suspected their son of using drugs. Happily, their suspicions were groundless, but the peephole he never remembered to fill and soon just put off indefinitely.

He eagerly awaited Jennifer's return. His wait was short, for soon she returned to the room again in her sweatpants and sweatshirt. She pushed shut her door and frustrated, began to run her hands through her hair as she looked at her face in the full-length mirror on the sliding doors of her closet. This was followed with a wider view of her body as she backed up and pulled the sweatshirt off over her head to reveal a set of heavenly perfect breasts.

He feasted on her youthful form as she ran her hands under her armpits, over her ass, and finally, in a slight squat, over her crotch as well before she narcissistically appraised herself in the mirror. She quickly pulled off her sweats to reveal a set of legs that were strong and muscled from running. She turned in profile and touched her breasts—their shape and size reminiscent of a small grapefruit adorned with large nipples and light pink areola the size of quarters--and stroked her flat tummy, dragging a finger in a lazy circle around her navel. The skin of her boobs was imprinted with small creamy triangles that barely extended beyond their light crimson centers. She turned away from the mirror and looked over her shoulder as she studied her backside and legs, an impressive length of tanned flesh stretching from her shoulders to her ass and further down her well-developed legs to her feet. She flexed her butt before she dipped her hands under her blue, string bikini panties and scratched the nails of both hands over her cheeks and along the walls of her crack, still evaluating herself, finally taking her hands and slightly parting herself as she raised her eyebrows in approval, quite aware of her assets. Then she dropped her panties to grace his eyes with her most private riches.

Surveying the slow rotation of her ass cheeks she walked to the foot of the bed, turned, sat, and spread her legs as she began to comb fingers through the trimmed hair of her muff, but this was short-lived as she jumped off of the bed to grab a magazine from her luggage, her breasts firmly jiggling with each quick movement of her body. Foster was beside himself in the dust and darkness of his attic, his erection pulsing insistently against his clothing as he guiltily watched the young woman settle into the guest room.

She crawled up the bed to where her head rested on a pillow and turned on her side over the magazine with her back to him, her ass cheeks now parted into a revealing split as one leg remained straight and outstretched and the other pulled up and bent at the knee to reveal her moist holes. She flexed and massaged the muscles of her ass and legs as she flipped through the pages of her magazine, finally settling on a picture of a buff boy-toy in his early twenties without a shirt, his one hand hanging by his side, held there by a thumb hooked into the waistband of his jeans, his fly suggestively unzipped a few inches overtop the faintest outline of a thick cock, limp and laying sideways. He looked directly into the camera and into the eyes of the viewer as she studied the picture.

Foster got a better look at her backside now that she lay relatively motionless. Little dimples indented either side of the base of her spine just above the slope of her butt. She must have sunbathed in a tiny bikini, for her back and ass were hardly imprinted with thin white strips, and on her ass was a tiny white triangle that failed to cover her crack at the top, all surrounded with caramel, sun-darkened skin. She leaned forward to grab a drink of water from a bedside table before she began to explore the walls of her crack, and then toy with herself, one finger tenderly fondling her minuscule pink asshole. She pinched her pussy lips, pulling on them and reaching further between her legs to massage her clit. One finger returned to the diminutive circle of her ass and tickled it, roughly pulled at it to stretch the skin and temporarily distend it with a forceful squeeze of one buttock that left white fingerprints on her skin. She finished by dragging her nails over one of her cheeks and making white lines in the skin before she rolled onto her back and licked her fingers like an animal.

Soon she was focused on her boobs, kneading her breasts first and pulling on her nipples after circling her areola, first with a dry finger and then one dripping with spit dipped from under her tongue. She bent both legs at the knees and spread them wide to pick up the pace. She clutched her entire mound and her fingers soon focused on her clit with one finger while two fingers of her other hand parted her clitoral hood to reveal—even as far away as he was in the attic--a large clit, swollen with desire. She tapped and brushed it again and again as she rapidly brought herself near to an orgasm, moaning softly as she struggled to maintain control in the guestroom of a stranger's house, two fingers dipping in and out of her pussy and her face contorted in anticipation of her release.

At last she mounted the crest of her orgasm as her pelvis lifted from the bed to kiss her dancing fingers poised on her pussy. Foster wanted her badly; by now he lusted for her more than anyone he could remember since his early twenties. But to have her he surmised that she needed him as well, to want his attention as much as he wanted to give it. Having her unsatisfied would either result in her cumming alone, later, in her room and without him, or it could encourage something between them he reasoned.

Thinking fast, he took his penknife from his pocket and tossed it down the open attic stairs, making a fairly loud noise, one not from the attic but rather from his room. The noise startled her and she sat up and listened. She whispered, "fuck" in a loud stage whisper and rose to listen at the door to her room, one hand still caressing her deprived pussy.

She stood there for a bit and thought, finally walking back to the mirror and again looking at her lean and muscular form. His plan failed, for undaunted and apparently aroused beyond the point of no return, she returned to the bed and lay on her stomach.

She assumed her first position, on her stomach, and pushed out her ass to accommodate her hand underneath. He watched astounded as her respiration grew labored, her breaths grew shorter, more frenzied and ragged and then almost stopped. Her ass rose further off of the bed and her entire torso shivered, as the tight knolls of her ass clenched in a series of spasms and a trickle of fluid ran from her pussy onto the sheets. She muffled several high-pitched squeals in the pillow below her as she came and continued to stroke herself with the hand hidden from his eyes. Her body relaxed as she brought her quivering fingers to her face and laid them in her gaping mouth, tasting the glistening juices.

After a period of recovery she stood and again approached the mirror. She squatted slightly to wipe her hand over her pussy lips. As she brought the hand up he thought that she would again taste herself, but she surprised him. She wiped her hand over her breasts like she was spreading body wash and then sparingly dabbed under her ears as if she were applying fine perfume. This she followed with a squirt of actual perfume in the same places, choosing not to shower. She again donned her sweatshirt, her blue panties, and tight gray running shorts and left the room without first checking to see if Foster was about. Maybe, he thought, she wanted to surprise him in the hallway, maybe not.

He quietly rose to his knees and backed to the stairs, descended to his bedroom and began to change his dusty clothes. Again he considered relieving his swollen member, and again he decided to wait; by now he mused, he was so horny that his wad would hit the headboard behind him when he came, so built up was his frustration that clear fluid had leaked a large spot onto his underwear. So he busied himself about his bedroom and finally managed to forget his hard-on.

He dressed and descended to the family room to find Jennifer watching television, barefoot in the sweatshirt and tiny gray athletic shorts, her legs pulled up onto the chair and provocatively tilted sideways, ass turned out, so that the crotch of her shorts graphically outlined her swollen lips and the split along her backside. "Hi Mr. Davis" she said innocently, without a trace of her lust, "it's so nice to watch TV in English for a change. I don't even mind the commercials," she added with a laugh.

"TV in English, huh? What else did you miss," he asked her, not quite knowing where the conversation would lead after what he had just seen.

"Pizza," she answered without hesitation. "We went to France and Italy and ate different kinds of food all over Europe, but America has a taste all its own" she said with a smile.

"Then pizza it is" he said. "Whenever you are ready, we can go out for some dinner. My treat."

She popped up from her chair and turned off the television. "Then let's go. I'm starved," she said as she ran back to the guest room, "but I have to change first" she called as she scurried back the hallway, and he watched her developed rear end gyrate into the distance.

He was dressed in his normal weekend garb, jeans and a sweatshirt, and he sat and waited for her to return, which was remarkably fast. When his wife dressed to go out it had meant that they wouldn't be leaving for over an hour.

But out she came in a maroon sweat suit and sneakers. She wore very little make-up, and truth be told she didn't need it.

They walked to a local family pizza pub, took a small table for two in a corner by a window and ordered a pizza and a pitcher of dark beer. He was impressed that she requested dark beer, as he normally had to drink some nameless light beer when he went out with friends, and moreover was used to girls her age drinking watery fruity drinks. But Jennifer had developed a taste for it in Europe much to his surprise.

After one pitcher the pizza came and they ordered another pitcher. She dove into the food like she was starved, devouring three slices to his two. The beer started to take hold as they began to people-watch, and they got the giggles over a couple with three horribly misbehaved children and sat closer together, speaking into each other's ears up close, so that their silly conversation would not be overheard. He relished every whisper of her hot breath on his ear. As she spotted each succeeding couple she would alert him with a nod of her head and a tap on his leg under the table, but eventually the tap became a stroke of sorts and soon her foot remained nonchalantly crossed against his calf. Her perfume mixture and his memory of today's events had their desired effect as he sat with a partial erection the entire second pitcher, her exotic scent a sort of ambrosia that subtly tugged on his libido and accented the physical contact between them. They drained the second pitcher and headed out the door. She bought a 6-pack of the beer to go even though he had beer at the house. She claimed that she got sick if she changed beers halfway through the night.